Page 41 of Faron
Golden Team HQ – 12:47 a.m.
Everyone was here.
Cyclone stood beside the monitor, arms crossed. Raven, Gage, Gideon, and Oliver took up the rear. Even Oliver—who usually skipped ops briefings unless something needed shooting—was here.
On the side benches, Kat, Emery, and Beatrice worked like intel agents—taking notes, pulling background data, running names through facial rec software.
I stood at the front.
“Marquez gave us one key name,” I began. “Salvador Reyes. Financial hub behind the cartel network. Launders money through ‘youth charities’—all fake fronts. He’s the one buying up land near Julia’s Place.”
Cyclone flipped to the next slide. Reyes in a suit, shaking hands with a city councilman.
“He wants to crush the rec center before it even opens,” Cyclone added.
“Not happening,” Oliver said, voice like a slammed door.
“We’ve identified four more names from the list who haven’t been hit yet,” Gage said. “They don’t know they’re being hunted.”
Kat leaned forward. “So we go public? Warn everyone?”
“No,” I said. “We go quiet. Fast. We take Reyes down before he makes his next move. And we make sure every name on that list lives to see another sunrise.”
Raven grinned. “Now we’re talking.”
Cyclone just nodded. “Let’s burn this thing to the ground.”
39
Blue
The street was quiet as Faron pulled up in front of Julia’s Place. The silence felt eerie—like the world was holding its breath.
I hadn’t been back since the shooting. Since everything.
I sat in the passenger seat and stared at the mural on the wall. Kat’s brushstrokes had only grown more vibrant—sunlight filtered through painted branches, casting golden rays on the kids below. A little girl with curly hair handed out books from a bench.
Julia.
Faron got out and opened my door, offering his hand.
“I can walk,” I said.
“I know,” he said softly. “But you don’t have to.”
I took his hand.
The building still smelled like sawdust and wet paint. Laughter echoed from somewhere in the back—Kat and Emery trying to wrangle a group of boys who were apparently attempting to build a throne from folding chairs.
As soon as the kids saw me, they froze.
Then one of them—a wiry boy with a stitched eyebrow I’d patched up myself—grinned wide. “She’s back!”
The shout echoed like a rallying cry. Kids came running.
I stood there, crying and laughing at the same time, with children clinging to my arms and Faron behind me, unmoving and strong.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Emery said, arms folded.
